


peel back your skin (and try to forget how it feels inside)

by smallredboy



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Alcohol, Bisexuality, Bonding over trauma, Child Abuse, Developing Relationships, Disability, Drug Addiction, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Getting Together, Homophobic Language, Hypersexuality, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Multi, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Sexual Content, Therapy, Time Skips, Touch Aversion, Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, non-consensual incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-20
Updated: 2019-03-13
Packaged: 2019-11-01 07:26:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17862953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Japan, 1973. Greg House is fourteen-years-old and living with John House at their apartment in Japan. When he crushes on a boy, things only get worse from there, and he’ll have to learn to live with the unforgivable things John did to him, his body and his mind.Or, the rape survivor House fic that me and three other people wanted. Heed the tags.





	1. take your taste back

**Author's Note:**

> hey! i finished this fic a week or so ago and it's finally seeing the light of day. ill post a new chapter every week or so, considering how slow the house ao3 tag is. 
> 
> this fic is REALLY heavy, and i recommend you leave if you might be triggered by the extensive talk of rape, incest and the trauma caused by such. your comfort is way more important than my fic! 
> 
> the fic title & all the chapter titles are from the song _my heart is the worst kind of weapon_ by fall out boy. 
> 
> enjoy!

I.  
It’s just Greg and John in the house in Japan.

He doesn’t have any friends, and his mouth still wraps uncomfortably around the language. It’s nice, sure, and he’s got the various writing systems down cold, but he can barely speak it. He gets weird looks by his classmates, and some of them manage to speak some English, so he talks to them. But it’s not friendships; it’s never friendships.

They dislike him because he’s at the top of his class, because he doesn’t speak more than necessary.

After a while, it gets lonelier and lonelier, and he decides to look through John’s stuff.

He’s not his father— they’ve got that put down in their book, alright. He’s already approached him about it, he already didn’t speak to him for a whole summer because of it, he already screamed his anger at Greg’s Mama.

He looks through the apartment, when John is off doing something or other for the Marines. It’s small, they’re on the third floor, and they have some incense burning and it’s all too enclosed. He’s exhausted from the last time he’s made a mistake, everything still aching from the ice bath.

After a few minutes, he finds John’s magazines.

He isn’t surprised to see they aren’t suited for him. Or that they’re full of skimpy women, and some advertisements for. He squints at the word— he hasn’t seen that word before in Japanese, but judging by the context he’d assume it means prostitute. He keeps looking and finds an advert circled in red marker.

Something about a threesome with two men and a woman.

He closes the magazine and throws it back into its place, his heart racing as he leaves the room.

II.  
Greg is fascinated with a boy in his class. He’s a year older than him, small hazel eyes and a smile worth hundreds of thousands of yen. He studies the language harder, because he doesn’t know any English, and he ends up managing to speak to him quite well.

He’s never felt quite a thing, but he assumes it’s something like adoration. After a while, he invites him over while his dad is out.

It becomes experimental touch, Greg trying to make his heartbeat steady as it climbs up and up like it’s on the steepest mountain he’s ever seen. His door is closed just in case, of course— although he keeps thinking about the magazine and the quiet hum of John coming back home, and he never mentions it.

And of course, eventually John comes home.

Greg is kissing the boy like his life depends on it, grabbing at his sides uncomfortably and awkwardly, as he’s never kissed anyone else before, and the boy is clawing at his shirt like there’s no tomorrow. And the door to his bedroom is slammed open, and he freezes on the spot, the boy pulling away from him.

And the magazine keeps playing again and again in his mind as John looks at him with disgust in his eyes, and tells the boy to get out of the house.

Afterward, there’s no dinner for him, and John doesn’t look at him in the eyes.

He can't keep his mouth shut, though.

“Why are you looking at me like this?” he asks. “I saw the magazine. The thing you put in red marker.”

John's brows furrow and he's filled with so much hate it makes him afraid, even if for just a second. He lunges towards him and yanks his head back by his hair, making him yelp.

“Insolent child,” he growls. “Looking through my shit.”

“I was bored—”

Another yank. He shuts his mouth.

“To the bathroom. Now.”

Ice bath. Fuck.

His mind goes unhelpfully blank and he nods, following John's lead with a quick, uneasy step, bile rising up his throat.

They don't talk about it the day after, but he sees a sticky note in the fridge telling him to not bring that boy to the house again.

III.   
Greg is trying to sleep when he hears him.

Their rooms are right next to each other— not a smart choice from whoever built the apartment, if you ask him. The walls aren't paper thin, but they aren't thick either.

It's not like he's trying to be quiet, either, judging by how loud it is.

The morning after, John isn't in his room even earlier than usual. Greg rummages through his stuff because the feeling of something being ever so slightly off stays there, heavy in his chest.

The magazine is there, in the very same magazine. There's a young man on one page, not looking older than twenty. Semen sticks the pages together.

Greg feels bile rise up his throat, and he puts the magazine back into its place.

IV.   
He doesn't follow orders. As much as his father, trained straight by the Marines, tries to make him, it's not a thing that comes to him.

Especially when said order involves not bringing home the boy he likes so much.

After heated kissing and him popping the boy's button-up open, he hears the door open. He's disheveled and his own shirt is unbuttoned. His heart falters and he manages to have the boy leave through the back door.

John steps through the door, and everything is a blur, but it ends up with him being put on his hands and knees.

“You need a new punishment,” John growls. “Obviously ice baths and going without dinner hasn't taught you anythin’.”

He screams, and he screams for so long it's like his vocal cords are being shredded apart. But John, his so-called father doesn't listen, and continues the slow torture of pulling him apart at the seams. It’s like his whole body is there for the world to feast upon— he kisses the back of his neck and Greg can’t help but let out helpless cries.

“Don’t act like a little girl,” John snarls at him, pushing his face onto the mattress.

Afterward, he guides himself with the medical books he bought to stop the bleeding.

V.   
They end up back to New Jersey months after.

Greg doesn't bring it up, and John doesn't bring it up either. Sometimes John gives him mocking pats in the head, sometimes John grabs him by the chin and knocks him down to his knees. Sometimes it all hurts and sometimes Greg feels nothing at all, nothing he can name or nothing he can identify.

He submerges himself on his medical texts. Books he bought in English, some in Japanese, some in other tongues he's not as familiar with. He reads over post-traumatic stress in war veterans, and wants to laugh at how many symptoms he exhibits.

When she's home, his Mama notices something is wrong.

“What happened to our Gregory?” She asks John again and again and again. He never answers, makes up some bullshit about a bully at his high school in Japan, about him being this helpless thing.

He loathes it, because when John is home and his Mama isn't, it's all back to the same sick routine. And he falls deeper into this pit he's dug himself into— or rather, the one John gave him a shovel for and snarled at him to dig.

His grades manage to keep up, because that's the only thing he knows how to do anymore. He studies until he falls asleep on his desk, until his brain gives out.

His Mama doesn't suspect John could've hurt him any more than he already has in the past.

The years pass, and when he turns sixteen it's like all the torture comes into a screeching halt.

His first birthday after John's punishment, it had been an special occasion— he'd been punished more severely than any time before.

Now, John doesn't even look at him, doesn't even spare him a glance.

“Is it over?” he asks, voice almost hopeful.

John gives him a disinterested look. “It's not interesting anymore,” he says. “It's not made for me anymore.”

Greg is sixteen years old, and the pieces finally fall in place for him. 


	2. empty another bottle and let me tear you to pieces

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for the warm reception this fic has gotten!! 
> 
> heres the second chapter
> 
> enjoy!

I.

College is being away from John.

House finds himself being called by his last name by everyone, as he’s not close to anyone at all. He gets drunk at parties and he ignores his desire to have sex with guys— guys his age, guys who don’t look anything like him at all. But he knows even doing that will send his brain haywire, will make him remember every time John decided to —

He draws in a breath. He’s pleasantly drunk and there’s a girl, and she’s pretty, and she’s good, and he can fuck her and no memories will come up because it’s not like he ever forcibly penetrated anyone. It’s all fine. It’s all good.

Except for when she kisses him roughly and she puts him on his back and suddenly he’s freezing, and suddenly it all feels bad-dirty-wrong and this shouldn’t be happening, it’s nothing similar to what—

“Are you okay?” she asks, still sunk into him.

He draws in a shaky breath, looks up at her. She’s his age— barely twenty-one, just a college student trying to make it into the world. “Yeah.”   
  
“You don’t seem okay.”   
  
House tries to give her his best smile, but it’s forced and insincere and it’s obvious. “Just keep riding me, just like that.”   
  
She listens, and he tries to ignore how he zones out for the rest of the night, her lips tasting of whiskey and her body feeling all too smooth. He wakes up with a terrible hangover the morning after, and he throws up as he’s plagued by the dirty-bad-wrong feeling all over his skin.

He scrubs himself clean and goes to class like there’s nothing wrong.

 

II.

Med school is the same as undergrad.

There's parties, and sex, and drugs, and hangovers. It's a routine that makes every day blend in together. 

At some point, he starts as a cheerleader. It's an okay gig— he gets the girls’ attention, and they're all fairly cute. 

Until, of course, some people find out. 

He gets called a faggot as if it's the faggiest thing he could do in campus, more than sucking a guy off or something. He gets called a fairy and he smiles at them. 

He wants to say _ maybe I am _ because he knows he is, but the idea makes him sick. 

He doesn't want to be like John. A part of him is scared, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. Scared of what, exactly? Being like him. Taking advantage of someone younger than him, making them pay with an undeserved punishment. He doesn't think he'd be able to touch a man without thinking he's doing something despicable. 

When he gets plastered at a party, he can feel hands on hips, and his heart beats faster as a guy winks at him. He's pretty, all legs and not a hint of stubble. 

He kisses him. He kisses him angry and upset and he wants to scream that _it tastes all the same_. 

But he simply pulls away, burps, and throws up into the guy's shoe. 

He gets called a faggot, but it falls on deaf ears, like most times he gets called names. 

 

III. 

His second almost-hookup with a man goes wrong, as most things in his life go. 

He’s a bit drunk, but not too much. He knows the hangover won't be too bad, especially with how he downs painkillers like no one's business. 

He’s too tired and too much of a coward to go get medication for psychic pain, so he lives with the wrong medication. Painkillers might be for when his body hurts, but when he takes one too much it works just fine for his mental scars. 

And so— he's there, and there's a pretty guy, his name is Toby or something. He's got full lips and thin brows and his nose is small, and he's got the prettiest blue-gray eyes. 

He wants to kiss him. He wants to fuck him, he wants to ruin him, he wants to hold someone tight and use them. But it’s too much like his father if it’s with another man, so he settles for the girls that crowd him because of his cheerleader gig.

So he kisses him, and he’s pulled into a bedroom, and everything hurts but he’s floating, and they get undressed and suddenly he’s crying into the man’s shirt.

Toby doesn’t protest— he holds him tight, and he rubs the small of his back and doesn’t do any more advances on him that night. They fall asleep together and he scrubs himself red and raw the next morning. How close is he getting to snapping? How close is he getting to being just like John?

 

IV.

Some years after he graduates, he’s at a medical conference in New Orleans. He talks to people, gets a little drunk, until there’s an altercation. There’s a man telling this guy to stop playing  _ Leave A Tender Moment Alone  _ on the jukebox, and the man doesn’t listen. The guy is pretty— thick brows, straight nose, mussed up hair. He must be a little drunk. Throughout the whole conference, he’s seen him with a folder in his hands— unopened, many documents in them. If he had to guess, they’re divorce papers. He looks like the type to marry young, make mistakes like that.

“Stop playing that song!” the guy yells.

When the man doesn’t reply, suddenly there’s the sound of a mirror breaking, and two more shot glasses follow. The guy’s brows immediately raise and he runs, but the police are already on their way. House can’t help but stare as they take him to the county jail— there’s something about him…

Blind rage caused by Billy Joel’s music. And he’s cute. It sounds ideal for a friend— whatever those are.

He goes to the county jail the next morning and pays for the man’s bail.

He gets out of the cell, and he looks at him.

“Do I… know you?”

“No,” House informs him. “And I don’t know you, either. I’m Dr. Gregory House.”   


His brows raise. “I’m Dr. James Wilson.”   
  
“Fresh out of med school?”   
  
“Well, yeah.”   
  
House points at the folder, still unopened. “Those are divorce papers?”   
  
Wilson’s face falls. “Yeah. How did you…?”   
  
He shrugs. “You looked like the type to get married young.”   
  
Wilson draws in a breath and starts walking, and House quickly outruns him. He turns back to meet his eyes. “You wanna go over to my hotel room?”   
  
Wilson stops on his tracks, and his expression is unreadable. “Are you hitting on me—? Is that why you bailed me out?”   
  
House’s eyes widen and a wave of shame and guilt crushes him, leaves him defenseless. Wilson is younger than him, by a few years, six, maybe— and he’s here, apparently propositioning him. Fuck. He’s just like his father.  _ You’re just like your father _ , his mind tells him again and again. The guilt makes his limbs freeze, makes him feel like he’s drowning in his own shame.

He swallows.

“No, I’m not hitting on you,” he says. “You just seem fun to be around.”   


Wilson smiles at him and they head to House’s hotel room. They spend the day talking and messing with the other and making jokes, and House doesn’t think he’s ever been so comfortable with someone before.

 

V.

He meets Stacy many years into his friendship with Wilson.

She’s pretty, and she’s so good, and their relationship is rocky at the start. Their first date is a disaster, and he’s never had a long-term relationship before. It’s a little pathetic, considering he’s nearing forty, but it’s not his fault that he’s a traumatized mess who copes with casual sex and being a bastard.

And so he falls into the quiet routine of dating Stacy. She’s not as much of an ass as he is, but that acerbic nature is in her, too— she can outsmart him, she tends to outsmart him. He’s in love with her— she’s incredible, she’s so good for him. She’s perfect for him.

She never finds out; she never gets told the details about John. At most he talks about his punishments, the ones that weren’t… that. No food, ice baths. Never getting pushed to his knees, he never mentions that. He doesn’t want to mention that to anyone at all.

It’s a secret he’d like to take to his grave.

Sometimes things get bad with Stacy. Sometimes she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t want to be touched, or why he circles from having his sex drive through the roof to finding anything and everything related to sex disgusting.

Once, he slips up and tells Wilson.

“Stacy doesn’t understand I’m a horny motherfucker,” House says as he’s over at Wilson’s house, Wilson’s wife doing something or other at her job. He lies back. “Like, I’m traumatized because of long-term sexual abuse, let me be horny, woman!”   
  
Wilson stops looking at the files of his latest patient.

Cold sweat runs down House’s back. “I said that out loud, didn’t I?”   
  
Wilson stands up, sits down next to him and draws in a breath. “Do you need to talk? To me? To someone? I know you do, and I know you are going to say no, but—”   
  
“It’s fine,” House says. “Therapy is for losers, Wilson.”   
  
“Therapy is for  _ people with problems _ , which seems like something you  _ have  _ in  _ large quantities _ .”   


He shrugs, and like with most things, Wilson lets him be, and doesn’t press, and lets him be his unhealthy, in love with Stacy, not knowing how to cope self.

He obviously starts caring more, though. He asks more questions, he makes sure to cheer him up when he’s clearly having a bad, bad day— he finds himself more comforted by Wilson’s presence than by Stacy’s.

One day, while drunk, he kisses him in front of Stacy. He throws up immediately after, and apologizes profusely.

They don’t talk about it after that.


	3. next to heartbeats where you shouldn't dare sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for the comments and kudos guys!! more trauma from yours truly 
> 
> stacy fuckin sux
> 
> enjoy!!

I.

It’s all her fault.

The logical part of him knows this isn’t true— the logical part of him knows all she did was chose the best option for him. She  was his medical proxy, she chose to do this, it was the best choice and he keeps reminding himself that. But fuck, he hates it, hates the pain and how he’s drowning himself in Vicodin. All he can feel is the pain and the relief of the drugs he takes.

And she says things, too, and she respects him and she apologizes and she clearly still loves him. 

One day, all his alarms are going off for no good reason, or no reason he can excuse. A patient in the clinic had obviously been sexually abused, and she said something about feeling helpless and unable to do anything and it’s like his whole body went cold with some sense of despair. He goes through the motions and he clocks out as soon as he can, his head swimming.

Stacy puts a hand on his thigh after work and he recoils like he’s been electrocuted, looks at her with fear written across his gaze.

“What’d I do?” Stacy huffs.

House doesn’t want to be touched. He doesn’t want her, he doesn’t want anything at all right now. 

“Don’t touch me,” he says, and he tries to sound flippant, annoyed.

Stacy’s brows furrow and she looks oh-so-worried for a second. “Are you okay?”   
  
“Yes.” 

Before she can say anything else, he takes his brand-new cane and limps over to the bathroom. He doesn’t want to deal with how being touched makes his skin crawl, how being touched makes him remember John and how his mother has been calling him and how he hasn’t told her about what happened yet.

It might’ve not been made for John when he was sixteen, but maybe it’s made for him again now that he’s helpless. Now that he’s in such a tight spot. Now that he’s crippled. He could easily take his Vicodin, make his pain too much to bear with.

He gets out of the bathroom— Stacy puts a hand on him, and he recoils, but he doesn’t say anything. There’s nothing to say.

 

II.

He tells Stacy when he’s hopped up on painkillers, his mind blurring itself out, his whole body aching as he tries to come to terms with the pain and his missing muscle on his leg. Everything is terrible and Stacy did something he said no to, and he doesn’t know if he hates her or loves her, if she was right or if she was wrong. 

“John,” he repeats, again and again, his heart aching with a need for everyone to know. 

Stacy sits next to him— she’s heard the story of the ice baths and the denied dinners again and again, but this is news to her, he’s sure of that.

“He raped me,” he says. He hates the word rape, four letters and too heavy and like a sucker punch. “All up until my sixteenth birthday, where he suddenly stopped—”

Stacy stands up and stops holding his hand. 

“You don’t have to lie for me to pity you and stay for longer,” she says. 

House’s eyes widen and he stares at her, his heart dropping. Bile rises up his throat and she’s the first person he’s told in so long, of course she’d think it’s a lie, he lies about so many things, why wouldn’t he lie about—

“I’m tired, Greg,” she says, and she smiles, and her eyes are almost cruel. “You are amazing, an amazing man, but I can’t take being blamed any longer.”

House stares at her, rendered speechless, his mind still trying to figure out what she’s saying, why she’s saying it— he’s too high on Vicodin to understand or to not feel like his world is burning from the seams and into its core. All he knows is that she thinks he’s lying and that she’s going to leave. 

He’s pulled off his thoughts by her pecking his cheek. 

“Just stay in bed, alright, baby? And don’t make things up anymore. I’ll bring you some Vicodin.”   
  
The next morning, she’s not there anymore.

 

III.

Wilson is there through the aftermath.

Of course he’s there, he’s his best friend, but it still hurts to be so close yet so far away from him.

He screams, he gets high, he hires hookers and has messy, meaningless sex with them. He wishes he had Wilson underneath him and not them. He doesn’t wish he had Wilson on top of him like some of them are because it’ll all taste the same as the blood from biting his lip too hard back in Japan.

And so he deals, and he yells, and he falls deeper into the pit of his addiction. There’s not much to do about it— there’s not much to do. He’s a fucking cripple because of Stacy, he’s in love with Wilson, and he hates how people touch him. How people look at him with pity when they know him as a cripple and not Dr. Gregory House.

“I don’t deserve sympathy,” he tells him, and Wilson holds him tight.

“You deserve it,” Wilson tells him. “You deserve so much sympathy.”   


They kiss, sometimes— sometimes they kiss and that’s that. It never goes any further than that. He doesn’t know if he wants it to go any further than that— he thinks he does. But it’s scary. He’s never had sex with a man— sex that wasn’t with John House, that wasn’t rape— and so he just lays there, shakes his head.

Wilson gets divorced, eventually, while he’s paying more attention to House than to Bonnie.

He says he deserves it, and keeps paying too much attention to House.

 

IV.

Some months after Wilson’s divorce, they end up making out.

House is still in shambles, and Wilson is still too kind even as he deals with his divorce. 

They’re both disasters, Wilson is just better at masking it. He’s better at acting like a functional human being— House never got classes on that. Maybe he should see what’s that like.

“I love you,” Wilson says against his lips.

House’s heart beats furiously, way too fast to be comprehensible. He nods.

Wilson understands he doesn’t know how to say it, so he kisses him again and again until they’re both high on the feeling.

 

V.

Three years after, House settles down, and after cycling through teams, he finds himself with a new doctor and a new interview— Dr. Robert Chase. Smart, capable, but there’s something about him. Something about the way he talks, about how nervous he seems when House brings up his father. House’s alarm bells go off, but he doesn’t think of bringing it up. That’s a sure-fire way of not getting the man as his employee.

He hires him, and he’s competent. He’s competent but too happy to follow House’s orders and to not do much apart from not challenge him. It’s a little boring if he wants to be honest, but the submission that drips out of him reminds him of himself when he’s alone, when his facades are pulled off by Wilson.

After about a year and a half of having Chase, he hires Dr. Allison Cameron. A pretty woman, who is young and beautiful and whose medical degree confuses him a little. She’s clearly trying her hardest in a world where she doesn’t really need to. She’s doing too much when she could be doing the bare minimum. It intrigues him.

Dr. Eric Foreman comes up last. He has a criminal record, and he’s a neurologist, and he’s incredibly intelligent and defiant. He hires him too, and he has a good feeling about this all. 

He cuddles up to Wilson, who he’s sort-of dating now. They haven’t had sex yet.

“I think this is a definitive team,” he tells him.

Wilson kisses the top of his head. “I hope so.”


	4. i'm the kind of kid that can't let anything go

I.

Early into his new, definitive team’s days, he gets into a lot of arguments with Cuddy. He likes Cuddy— she’s brash and she’s his boss and she lets him tell her anything and everything he wants to say, and she barely even bats an eye. It’s like he can take all his pent up anger out on her and on Chase and on Cameron. Both of them don’t fight back, Cuddy does, and Foreman does a little too much for his liking.

One day, Cuddy yells at him, “Do you know what the word  _ no  _ means?! Do you know what consent means?!”   


House stares at her, suddenly going completely silent, his eyes unfocusing. Cuddy’s brows raise.

“House?” she tries softly.

He swallows and clears his throat. “Nothing. It’s nothing. I’ll take it you’ll say-” His voice cracks. Goddammit. “You’ll say yes, eventually.”   


She circles her desk and walks closer to him. “Are you okay?”   
  
He smiles at her, but his eyes are empty, and he turns to the door. He draws in a breath. “I know what no means,” he says. “But one John House sure doesn't.” He opens the door and leaves, and if she ever thinks about bringing it up, asking him about his father, she never does. He’s a little thankful for that.

That night, he cuddles up next to Wilson, and listens to his heartbeat and lets WIlson rub the small of his back.

It’s stupid little things that trigger him, and stupid big things that trigger him, too.

 

II.

Foreman notices something is off. He doesn’t expect anything else from the probably smartest person in his team, but still, maybe he’s being a little too obvious about how much he hates fathers. They almost always are terrible— there’s not many good fathers in the world.

“You need to stop jumping to the conclusion that all our patients’ dads are bad,” Foreman tells him.

House snorts and keeps twirling his cane, fiddling with it, still in deep thought about their latest patient. If it wouldn’t garner him pity and sympathy, he would shout that of course he jumps to the conclusion. It’s only natural that he jumps to the conclusion— it’s a survival mechanism. If all men with children are bad, it means he won’t get hurt by them because he won’t ever trust one.

He stops moving his cane.

“I mean, most of the time I’m right.”   
  
“That doesn’t mean you need to keep doing that. How do you think someone would feel about being falsely accused of raping his goddamn kid—”

House looks up at him, raises a brow. “I don’t know and I don’t care, until I make sure that it is a false accusation.”   
  
“Guilty until proven innocent?”   
  
House shrugs. “Guess so. Now go, I have more brainstorming to do.”   


Foreman clearly doesn’t buy it, doesn’t buy his lack of reasoning, but he doesn’t push, as if digging into his boss’ personal life is a crime— he makes sure to see him leave before going to check on the patient’s father.

He’s normal, all too normal, and nothing he says sets his alarm bells off.

He hates that some people get what he never had.

 

III.

House knows exactly what’s happened when an older man blocks the door, asking Chase if he has a moment. Chase looks— different than usual (surprised, scared, anxious, too many emotions to name), and he mumbles something about having to go before leaving the room.

His alarm bells go off— how long has it been since Chase has seen his father? And what did his father exactly do to him?

“You’re Chase’s dad,” he tells Rowan; it’s not a question. It’s obvious. He sips his coffee. “It was obvious, you know, with the big hug, and how happy he was to see you.”   


Something darker fills Rowan’s eyes, and House knows this man is no good at all.

He spends most of the day speculating about it, about why Chase is scared of his father. Because it could be the same House has gone through, or it could not be— it could be a thousand things. But it’s all the same thing in a different set-up; abuse. So he waits, and he listens, and he tries to dissect Chase’s reactions and apply them to his own.

He knows Chase’s mother is dead, that she died after Rowan left, and he knows there’s something despicable about this man. He knows it’s all going down south.

When he asks, Chase promptly ignores the question. He’s anxious; he’s terrified.

After a while, he does enough digging to get Rowan to tell him what’s he doing there— he’s got stage four lung cancer, and he’s going to die in three months. He wonders how Chase would react to these news— would he be apathetic? Would he cry? Would he be relieved?

He wants to test this, but he knows Wilson won’t react all too well to him doing that. Still, he has the need, and he knows Chase is hiding something bigger than his father leaving him and his mother.

“Your father has stage four lung cancer,” House says after they discharge their patient.

Chase freezes, and his face is filled with fear. He turns to House. “You’re lying.”   
  
“I’m not.”   
  
“He’s not dying. He just came here to mess with—”   


Chase’s voice cracks, and House interrupts, “He is dying. He told me, and he told me not to tell you.”   


Chase stays silent for a while, staring at the floor, his gaze unreadable. There’s some tears welling up in his eyes, but they aren’t shed. Chase tries to keep his emotions in as much as House does, it seems.

“Why did you tell me?”   


House knows he thinks it’s something akin to  _ Because I need to know everything _ , but he says the honest response— “Because I know there’s more to this than him leaving.”   
  
Chase snorts, unamused. “What? Your alarm bells for daddy issues went off?”   
  
“I think everyone’s daddy issues bells went off.” He sits on the edge of his desk. “But I’ve got a much better trauma radar than most people, especially regarding fathers.”   


Chase’s head snaps up and he looks at him. “You…?”   
  
He smiles, but it’s not happy. “The four letter R word. You?”   
  
A few tears start sliding down his cheeks, and Chase lets them fall and he crumbles little by little, soft sobs leaving his mouth. After a minute or two, House opens his arms, and Chase hurls himself towards him and hugs him so, so tight.

He hugs back, and he doesn’t think he’ll feel closer to any fellow more than in this moment, sharing their hurt in a way too quiet manner. Not even with words, just with the way Chase flinches a little, the way House holds him tight, and the way Chase sobs into his chest.

 

IV.

“How do you feel about him dying soon-ish?” House asks one night, while Wilson, Chase and him are sharing a few beers. Chase is more than aware he and Wilson are dating, and it’s never been a problem in his book. If anything, it’s expected, Chase tells them, and House guesses it’s true.

Chase takes another sip of his beer and shrugs. “I dunno. On one hand I feel sad, but on the other I don’t… feel anything.”   
  
House nods. “That’s how I’d feel if I was in your position, I think. It’s… understandable. It’s like…”   
  
“Do I keep having to play therapist for you two?” Wilson asks suddenly.

House flips him off, and he pulls him into a quick kiss in response, which leaves him a little dazed.

“I’ll get a therapist when I’m dead,” House says.

“I actually have an appointment scheduled next month,” Chase intercepts quietly.

Wilson puts a hand on his shoulder— he flinches, so he pulls away and smiles at him. “That’s great, Chase. I’m proud of you.”   
  
Chase glows a little, but he doesn’t say anything in response.

After Chase is gone, House crawls into bed with Wilson at his side. He’s a little drained after talking about trauma so much— he’s never talked about it with someone at such length. But it’s okay, because Chase has gone through the exact same thing as him, and Wilson is his boyfriend. They understand better than anyone else would.

After a few minutes of silence, he taps on Wilson’s shoulder.

“Yeah?” he asks, sleep pushing into his voice.

“I’ll see about getting a therapist.”

Wilson smiles and kisses him. “Good.”

 

V.

After his first therapy session, House has his first successful attempt at having sex with Wilson.

Wilson kisses him through it, and he’s so so gentle— he treats him like he’s a delicate flower, and maybe in another setting he’d mind. But Wilson is an exception to all his rules; Wilson kisses him and mumbles nonsense praise as he fucks into him. He makes sure they’re looking at each other’s eyes, so House’s brain can’t think for even one second that this is John.

Wilson holds him tight, and he mumbles nonsense.

“I’m so proud of you — ngh — I love you so much, House — ah — you’re so good, you’re perfect, you’re so fucking stunning —”

House drinks it up, he eats up the praise and someone telling him he’s proud of him. Wilson telling him he’s proud of him. They might fight to hell and back, they might be a mess, but they’re figuring it out. They’re figuring House’s way of coping too, they’re figuring how to have sex without a part of House’s brain misfiring. They’re figuring out all the ways they can show affection without saying I love you, because that word is too heavy for House sometimes.

Once, House’s parents come visiting. The day he’s notified of this he’s rigid, unable to speak or think or be productive. All he can think of is that he’ll have to see his face, that he’ll have to talk to John, that he’ll have to talk to John to see his Mama.

Before he can prepare himself for the worst night of his life since his teenage years, he hears Wilson calling someone.

“Yes, Ms. House— I’m really sorry, he’s just really busy right now, I’m sure you can come see him alone in a few days? Would that be good?”

House has never been so floored with love before.

The night he’s supposed to be out having dinner with his abuser, Wilson makes love to him, and keeps telling him how perfect he is. He’s nowhere near fixed— he doesn’t need to be fixed— but he feels like he’s fixed right this moment, Wilson mumbling praise into his ear and kissing him madly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for reading this highly personal fic, it means the world to me! 
> 
> hit me up at [my tumblr!](https://noplceinheaven.tumblr.com)

**Author's Note:**

> comments would be greatly appreciated! thank you so much for reading, and hit me up at my tumblr @noplceinheaven if you want! <3


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